Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  “Kalliades?” Ajax questioned him.

  Banokles managed a grin. “He’s back there, having a rest and something to eat. He’s up next. And you know he could teach me a thing or two about sword fighting.”

  Ajax laughed, the deep rumble making the stones of the corridor vibrate.

  “Then you will walk the Dark Road together,” he promised.

  He attacked with speed that belied his great size. He was fast, but Banokles already was moving, He ducked under the slashing sweep of the broadsword and kicked out, catching Ajax on the knee. The big man staggered, but he was so well balanced that he recovered in a heartbeat and lunged for Banokles’ throat. Banokles blocked the blow and leaped back a pace.

  Ajax attacked again. Their blades met. Ajax hacked and slashed, but Banokles blocked every blow, moving on instinct, his body awash with pain. Suddenly Ajax spun on his heel and crashed his massive fist into Banokles’ face. Banokles fell back.

  He blinked. There was sweat in his eyes, or blood, because his vision was fading in and out. Suddenly he found that he was down on one knee and could not get up. I’ll have that sleep soon, he thought.

  He was surprised to see Ajax sheathe his sword, then turn and walk back down the corridor. Banokles knew he should leap up and ram his blade into his old comrade’s back. He was planning to do it, but time passed and he found that he still was kneeling on the floor. Angry voices echoed down the corridor. There were armed men there, watching him.

  “I order you to kill him,” one man shouted furiously. His deep voice was familiar, but Banokles could not remember whose it was.

  “I’ll not dispatch him for you, Agamemnon King,” Ajax rumbled, anger in his voice. “You were a warrior once, too.”

  Banokles’ last sight was of a tall figure walking down the corridor toward him. He realized it was Red, and he grinned up at her as the light faded.

  Today was a good day, he thought happily.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE GOD OF MICE

  Agamemnon wrenched his sword out of Banokles’ chest and handed it to an aide to clean. He was in a good humor. Killing Banokles had put an end to an irritating flea bite he had not been able to scratch. He had no doubt that the traitor’s accomplice Kalliades lay dead somewhere in the mounds of Trojan corpses he had seen between the Scaean Gate and this last corridor.

  He had waited all morning with his brother kings Menelaus and Idomeneos, his anger growing as warrior after warrior sent into the stone corridor failed to kill the renegade. But now he was dead, and nothing stood in the way of Agamemnon’s twin ambitions: to kill the boy-king, Hektor’s get, and to win his prize: the treasure of Priam. He knew he must be close to them both for so many Trojans to have died guarding this way.

  At the end of the stone corridor was a simple oak door.

  “Open it!” he ordered, and two axmen ran forward. But it was not barred and opened at a touch. Preceded by the axmen and flanked by his bodyguard, Agamemnon strode in.

  Inside there appeared to be a hospital. Dead and dying Trojans, perhaps forty of them, including a few women, lay on the floor of a great square room. The stench was appalling, and death hung in the air like wood smoke. All eyes turned to him. Some were full of fear; most held acceptance of their fate.

  Standing in front of the wounded, holding a sword raised in both hands, was a short young man in a blood-drenched robe.

  Ignoring him, Agamemnon looked around. There were no children in the chamber. They must have hidden them. He frowned, his good humor evaporating.

  The boy with the sword was saying something. Agamemnon listened impatiently. “Do not kill these people,” the boy asked, his voice trembling. “They can no longer harm you and your armies.”

  “Kill him,” Agamemnon ordered the axmen.

  “Wait!” Meriones, Idomeneos’ aide, stepped forward in front of the boy. The axmen paused and looked to Agamemnon uncertainly.

  “I know you, lad,” Meriones told the boy. “I have seen you with Odysseus.”

  The young man nodded and lowered his sword slightly. “I am Xander. I was privileged to be healer to great Achilles and his Myrmidons. I am a friend of Odysseus.”

  “Then what are you doing here, lad, with the Trojans?”

  “It is a long story,” Xander confessed.

  “It is a story I would like to hear,” Meriones told him, looking at Agamemnon. “Spare the boy, Agamemnon King. We could do with a tale or two now that Odysseus has departed.”

  “Good riddance,” Idomeneos barked. “I want no more tall tales. Kill the boy and let’s find the treasury.”

  Irritated almost beyond endurance by the Kretan king after a long summer in his company, Agamemnon snapped, “Very well, Meriones. As usual, you give me good advice. Healer, I will spare you and your wounded if you tell me where Hektor’s son is.”

  The young man replied nervously. “Astyanax is gone, sir. The Golden One took him away last night.”

  Helikaon again! Agamemnon felt his fury rising with the speed of a summer storm. “Helikaon was here? Only last night? How is that possible? You are lying, boy!”

  “No, sir. I am telling you the truth. He climbed the north wall and took the boys away. The lady Andromache went with him, and—”

  “The north wall? But that cannot be climbed!”

  “It is true, lord. I expect the rope is still there for you to see.”

  He pointed toward the rear rooms, and Agamemnon gestured for a soldier to go look. Menelaus followed him.

  Always Helikaon, the Battle King thought, spoiling my plans at every turn! Even at my moment of victory.

  Idomeneos rasped, “I have no interest in the killing of Hektor’s son. Troy is finished whether Priam’s line survives or not. Do you fear that Helikaon and the boy-king will raise an army and try to take the city back? Why would we worry? We will find Priam’s treasure and return to our lands.”

  Agamemnon nodded. Sharptooth was, as usual, motivated only by his own greed, but in this he was right. The boy could be hunted down at leisure. Nowhere on the Green Great was safe for him. Once Troy was securely in Mykene hands and in the charge of a commander loyal to Agamemnon, the king could go back to the Lion’s Hall and his wife and son and celebrate his victory over Priam and his Golden City. Agamemnon King, Conqueror of the East! His name would go down in legend as the destroyer of Troy.

  Good humor restored, he turned to Xander. “I am a man of my word, boy. Tend to your wounded. No more Trojans will die at the hands of the Battle King.”

  “Brother!” Agamemnon turned. Menelaus had returned from the rear rooms pale-faced.

  “Well? Was the rope there? Is the healer speaking the truth?”

  “Yes, Brother, but there is something else you must see.” He gestured urgently for Agamemnon to join him.

  The Mykene king sighed. His bodyguard at his side, he followed Menelaus into a small rear room. The window looked out to the north, and to its stone pillar was tied a strong rope. It had been cut near the top.

  At Menelaus’ urgent bidding, Agamemnon walked to the window and looked out.

  It was well past noon, and the sun shone warmly on the meadows flanking the river Simoeis. Dry throughout the summer, the wide plains had been made verdant by the recent rains. But little greenery was now visible. As far as the eye could see, the plain was covered with armed men, cavalry and infantry in disciplined ranks, motionless, waiting for orders.

  Menelaus gasped, “Hittites, Brother! The Hittite army is here!”

  On a rocky clifftop to the east of the city the old smith Khalkeus lay in an exhausted sleep, his body curled protectively around the perfect sword. His hands had been burned badly trying to handle the weapon. The numbness in his fingers had masked the pain at first. He also, he thought, had not eaten for several days, although he was interested to find he no longer seemed to need food. His dwindling store of water smelled bad, but he sipped it from time to time.

  At twilight he decided to return to the
city to present the sword to the king. His few belongings, along with the tent that had sheltered him all summer, had been destroyed in the fire. He tucked the half-empty water skin under one arm and, gingerly cradling the sword across both forearms, set off.

  The pain in his hands was torture. He was angry with himself. A smith with his experience should not make the mistakes of an apprentice. The raw red palms would take a long time to heal, and he would be hampered in his work.

  He encouraged himself to go forward by visualizing the expression of awe and delight on the Mykene king’s face when he saw the sword, his urgency as he begged Khalkeus to tell him how it was made. The old man felt a moment of regret that it would not be Helikaon who would receive the sword. He always had done his best work with the encouragement of the Dardanian king, but he had no doubt that by now the Trojans and their allies had been destroyed. As he walked toward the city, he could see flames leaping high from within the walls and hear the sounds of battle. He was curious to know how the western kings finally had taken the city. The idea of a great battering ram suspended on chains on a wheeled platform had been forming in his head. Distracted, he stumbled on the rocky ground and nearly fell. Careful, he thought to himself in a moment of clarity. You cannot afford to fall on your hands. He moved more slowly, picking his way in the darkness.

  He paused for breath under the walls of Troy, beneath the northeast bastion, and drank some of his water. He sat down for a moment and fell instantly asleep.

  It was well past dawn when he woke again. His hands were on fire, and his head ached abominably. He drained the water skin in one long gulp, then vomited most of it onto the ground. He threw away the water skin and slowly got to his feet. A long look at the perfect sword invigorated him, and he set off around the walls. He passed the Dardanian Gate and the East Gate but found them both closed and sealed, and so he headed for the Scaean Gate.

  But when he got there, those gates also were closed. He craned his neck to see the top of the wall but could see no guards. He wandered around the ruined lower town, but it was deserted. His strength exhausted, he sat down in the dust outside the wall. The six stone statues guarding the Scaean Gate watched him balefully.

  It was a long time before there was a creak and a groan and the gates opened to allow a troop of soldiers out. He saw they were Mykene by their armor, and he struggled to his feet.

  “You, soldiers, take me to Agamemnon!” he cried. Ignoring the waves of agony, he took the sword in both hands and waved it at them.

  The troop ignored him and marched off down through the town.

  “Your king is expecting me!” he shouted despairingly. “This sword is for him, you idiots!”

  A single soldier peeled off from the rear of the troop and walked toward him, sword unsheathed. Khalkeus saw that half the man’s face was hideously scarred. Sand, he thought with sudden interest. That must be what red-hot sand does to flesh and skin.

  The warrior did not hesitate or pause. “Idiots, are we?” he asked. He rammed his sword through Khalkeus’ chest, dragged it out, and rejoined his comrades.

  It was like being hit by a hammer, Khalkeus thought as he fell, the perfect sword cast into the dust beside him. The pain in his hands had disappeared, he realized with relief.

  He had a curious dream. He dreamed that he was on the Xanthos and a stiff breeze was filling the black horse sail. The ship cut through the water, which was deep green and strangely still. The Golden One was striding toward him, the sunlight behind him outlining his form but putting his features in shadow. Khalkeus could not see well and felt very weak. Then he realized the golden man was bigger than Helikaon. In fact, he was a giant, and the light around him was not from the sun but was emanating from the man himself. Is it Apollo, the sun god? he wondered. Then, with a shock of realization, he saw the god was limping.

  The god leaned down to him and gently took the perfect sword from his hands.

  “You have done well, smith,” his deep voice boomed. “Sleep now, and tomorrow we will set you to work.”

  Tudhaliyas IV, emperor of the Hittites, strode into Priam’s megaron surrounded by his retinue. Xander watched with interest. He never had seen an emperor before. Apart from the Hittite mercenaries he had treated, who seemed the same as any other mercenaries, the only Hittite Xander had met was Zidantas. Zidantas was huge, with a shaved head and a forked black beard. This emperor was thin and very tall, with a curled beard, and was dressed in shiny clothes like a woman. His retinue was even more strangely garbed in brightly colored kilts and striped shawls. But they all were armed to the teeth, as were their hosts.

  Xander had wanted to stay with the wounded, but as Agamemnon left the queen’s gathering room, he suddenly turned to Meriones. “Bring the healer,” he ordered.

  Xander now stood nervously at Meriones’ side, feeling that the black-clad Kretan was his only friend in the room.

  Emperor and king met in the center of the megaron, which still was heaped with corpses and abandoned weapons. Tudhaliyas looked around silently, his dark eyes revealing nothing.

  Agamemnon spoke first. “My condolences on the death of your father. Hattusilis was a great man and a wise leader,” he said, and Xander was surprised at the sincerity in his voice. “Welcome to Troy, a city of the Mykene empire.”

  Tudhaliyas regarded him for a moment, then replied mildly, “The Hittite emperor is accustomed to his vassals prostrating themselves before him.”

  Agamemnon’s eyes hardened, but he replied evenly, “I am no man’s vassal. I fought for this city, and you enter it with my permission. I opened the Scaean Gate to you as a gesture of friendship. Everything you see belongs to me. And to my brother kings,” he added swiftly, seeing Idomeneos frown.

  “You fought to win this charnel house?” Tudhaliyas commented, looking around again at the corpses, the blood, and the gore. “You must be very proud.”

  “Let us not misunderstand each other,” Agamemnon replied smoothly. “The allied kings of the west fought to win this city, and by superior strategy and military strength and the will of the gods, we succeeded. Your fame as a strategos precedes you, Emperor. And you know that for a people to dominate the Great Green they must first dominate Troy.”

  “You are right, Mykene,” Tudhaliyas said. “It is important that we do not misunderstand each other. Priam ruled this city on the suffrance of the Hittite emperors. Under his kingship Troy flourished and became rich, and the land was at peace. The city guarded the Hittite trade routes by sea and land, bringing prosperity to our great city Hattusas. Trojan troops fought for the empire in many battles. My friend Hektor”—he paused for the words to sink in—“was partly responsible for the triumph over the Egypteians at Kadesh.

  “Now,” Tudhaliyas went on, his voice hardening, “Troy is in ruins, its bay unnavigable. All its citizens are dead or fled, and its army is destroyed. The countryside is barren, with crops ruined and livestock dying. That is why I have taken the trouble to come here myself with my thirty thousand warriors.”

  He paused, and a thoughtful silence hung in the air.

  “The Hittite empire cares little who holds Troy if the city prospers and showers its wealth around it. But a dead city in a dying land attracts only darkness and chaos. The empire is forced to intervene.”

  Xander felt the atmosphere in the megaron become icy. There were fewer Hittites in the chamber than there were Mykene warriors, but they were fresher and better armed, and they looked as though they were spoiling for a fight.

  Agamemnon gazed around assessingly, perhaps thinking the same thing. “Troy will prosper again under Mykene rule,” he vowed. “By next summer the bay will be full of trading ships once more. The city will be rebuilt, and under our strong leadership it will flourish again.”

  Tudhaliyas suddenly stepped forward, and Agamemnon instinctively moved back. The emperor, his bodyguard shadowing him, strode over to Priam’s gold-encrusted throne and sat down gracefully. Agamemnon was forced to stand in front of him to spe
ak to him.

  Tudhaliyas told him, “The Bay of Troy has been silting up over the last hundred years, I am told. Now a Mykene fleet lies wrecked there, and already new mud banks will be building around the hulks. My experts predict that within a generation the bay will have disappeared and the city will be landlocked. Trading ships will pass it by in favor of the young cities flourishing higher up the Hellespont. Troy is finished, Agamemnon, thanks to you.”

  “I did not start this war, Emperor!” Agamemnon spit it out, his composure lost. “But I saw, before all others, the danger Troy offered to the nations of the Great Green. Priam’s ambition, backed by his son’s cavalry and the Dardanian pirate fleet, was to subdue all free peoples to his will. And while others were bribed or seduced by him, Mykene was not fooled.”

  Tudhaliyas leaned back in the throne and laughed, his voice echoing richly in the great stone hall. Then he told Agamemnon, “This nonsense might have fooled your puppet kings as you sat around your campfires at night, telling one another Priam was a monster of ambition determined to conquer the world. Yet this monster brought forty years of peace until you chose to destroy it.”

  “I have fought for this city,” Agamemnon roared. “It is mine by right of arms.”

  At that moment a Hittite warrior walked into the megaron and nodded to the emperor. Tudhaliyas flicked his eyes to him, then back to the Mykene king.

  “So you invoke the right of arms,” Tudhaliyas responded, smiling. “At last, something we can agree on.”

  He stood up and looked down at Agamemnon. “Outside this city are thirty thousand Hittite warriors. They are all well fed and well armed, and they have marched a long way without the chance of a good fight.”

  He paused as a Mykene warrior came into the megaron and hurried up to Agamemnon. He spoke in the king’s ear, and Xander saw Agamemnon blanch.